“I guess we’ll find gangs anywhere we go,” Mr. Wallace told him. “At least that’s my opinion, after quite a bit of traveling.”
Bob recalled the bands of criminals he had met with at home and on the Sahara Desert, and concluded that his friend was right. No matter how much good there is in the world, there is always a certain amount of bad.
Two hours later the Americans were surprised to see that they were coming into a town. At the railroad station where they had boarded the train, they had not been told that another town was between them and the coast.
“This is Mahatos,” announced the naturalist, pronouncing the name as best he could.
“Guess everyone here wants strangers to be sure and know what town they’re in,” laughed Bob. “At any rate, that sign is plenty large. Almost hides the station.”
This town was much the same as the one at which they had boarded the train. They were glad when finally it was left behind.
“Wonder if we’ll make any more stops?” mused Bob with a smile.
“Don’t be surprised if we do,” Mr. Wallace replied. “For all I know there may be a dozen villages between us and the coast.”
During the next two hours the train crawled along without coming to a settlement. Then finally it passed a row of little black houses and pulled into Cartagena, the coast city.
“All out,” said Mr. Wallace, picking up the large gasoline can. “We’ve reached our destination at last.”